


Blue

by narratrice18



Category: LOVE DEATH + ROBOTS (Cartoon)
Genre: Artificial Intelligence, Blue - Freeform, Existentialism, Future, Gen, Inner Dialogue, Peace, Purpose, Return To Self, Self-Love, loving yourself, what is life?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2020-11-22 19:27:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20879450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narratrice18/pseuds/narratrice18
Summary: The Entire History of Zima Blue





	1. The Beginning

He had to wonder if he was making the right decision. It was the kind of change you could never come back from. Well, maybe not you. He might. Or he might not. These things were so deep underground he had traveled to a different solar system to find _them_.

It was not the kind of appointment you make over the phone. No– this was a meeting hidden in the shadows, the violent corners almost no one ventured. You would find three types of people here: the desperate, genius maniacs who had performed their dance in the dark for so long it was a practiced routine, the valiant fighters who truly believed they were doing the right thing, and at last, his kind. The kind so hungry there was no one else who could satiate them.

Three knocks. Not very original, but maybe that’s what made it safe. Three, sure, strong, resounding, knocks. They seemed almost

m

u

n

d

a

n

e

.

Except for their echo. The echo that stayed and rang true and through and around until it moved louder than his beating heart and panting breath and– the door swung back.

He said nothing. They said nothing. In the depths of their lair– because, what else could it be described as– the shrill whine of a saw gave him a glimpse of what was to come. And come it would, he had said goodbye to the point of return when he brought his knuckles down against the rusted sheet of steel. Three knocks. That was all it took.

They knew who he was. He could be no one else but himself.

himself.

What would that mean _after_?

He didn’t know.

He didn’t want to know.

This was his path.

They had opened the door wide enough to let him in. They had been waiting. God, he was an idiot for getting distracted. He needed to focus.

They motioned to a seating area. Fair enough, it was his turn to wait.

As he unclenched the fist he didn’t know he was holding, sharp pricks caught his attention. The steel must have been worse than he thought, or he must have knocked too hard. He didn’t bother wiping off the debris. It would be gone soon enough anyway. Most of him would. He had come to terms with that.

One of them came to escort him further within. Their journey met an abrupt end at

a changing room.

How fitting.

He was surprised to find a small mirror on the wall, facing himself as he entered. It unsettled him, the reminder of his _self_. The light was dim, but he knew that face so well he could recreate it perfectly with his eyes closed.

So he did.

He let his eyelids droop down, sealing him off from the world. The darkness enveloped him like an old friend and he gently raised a hand, stretching it out until he felt impact on the glass. He traced up, around his earlobe, up the cartilage, the smooth contour of his naked head, down the other ear, and a sharp angle that made his jaw so distinct. He lifted the finger to travel down this time, from his brow bones above deep set sockets, to high cheekbones and a sharp nose. His lips, the only soft feature on his face, were delicate and round. He had followed the lines in his head until the image was so clear, it was like looking in a mirror.

He opened his eyes, and there it was.

Him.

His

self.

Three knocks.

Except now they were for him.

He needed more time.

They gave it.

He slipped out of his jacket, hanging it gently on the hook behind him. He unbuttoned his shirt, one by one, finger pads grazing their tops before pushing them through, away, off. He lifted his heels out of his shoes, one after the other, setting them below the first hook. He unzipped his pants and folded them next to the shirt.

He ran his fingers along the hanging garment. It was rough and ugly, a departure from his usual sleek aesthetic. It would be off soon, he reminded himself, as he tugged it over his head. He tied it together, once, twice, and knocked three times to let them know he was ready.

As they escorted him to his destination, he looked up at the dark ceiling. He closed his eyes for half a second, replacing the damp with an endless darkness, prickled by light.

The sky.

The stars.

They were his.

He was theirs.

He had barely been here an hour and already he craved the outside. His journey was just beginning.

The room was stark in contrast to the others he had witnessed. The white light washed everything in a sterile glow, forcing him to remember what was about to happen. A glove snapped he jumped. Was he really ready for this?

Did it matter if he was?

They guided him to the table. The iciness that could not kiss the exposed skin of his back seeped through the rough cloth, chilling him to his core. His feet hung off the edge, not unexpected for a man his size. As they assembled the extension, he wiggled his toes. He wondered what that would feel like, after. If that would feel like– anything? Could it? Should it? He didn’t want the answer, so he didn’t ask.

They were ready. And so, he too, was ready.

**Zima** counted down from ten.

Seven was the last thing he remembered.


	2. The Transformation

The sterile white light washed the room in an eerie glow. Machines beeped steady, tools itching to be wielded by their masters. Gloved, masked, enrobed, they entered. A team of two, with a third standing by to assist. Holding their hands up by their sides, a single glance was all the confirmation they needed from each other. They were ready to begin.

•

The rip of the blade echoed through Zima’s core. It was less of a sound than a sensation, a vibration that began as a dull hum. Deep base notes filled Zima’s skull, bouncing around the endless chamber that trapped his mind. It reverberated through the tip of his pinky; if you focused hard enough, you could see the blur where his body blended into reality.

•

Zima was

f l o a t i n g .

He was also acutely aware that he should not **at all** be aware that he was, in fact,

f l o a t i n g .

And yet, here he was. Limbs hugged to his core, the Abyss, and Zima, floated along together. Time was a concept beyond his comprehension. The entirety of Zima existed here. Wherever this was.

He waited.

And waited.

And waited.

•

No matter how many times they did this, it was never any easier. Each body, so unique, so filled with brutal beautiful edges ripped apart by their machines only to be stitched back together, delicately, painstakingly, religiously by their hands; their ultimate tool. Without their hands, they were nothing.

•

Zima knew somewhere out there, the vibrations had stopped. He couldn’t find the source of their intensity, but that didn’t mean they were gone. He was not trapped; Zima knew this was what had to happen. Closing his eyes-though, it didn't make much of a difference- Zima’s turned his focus towards the center of his chest. Each breath out was deeper than the last. Until his body could handle no more. He exhaled slowly, savoring the emptiness that grew inside him, probing by the limits imposed upon him by some other being. A small shudder- his body fought back against the deprivation. Zima succumbed.

•

The newest patient had caused quite a stir. They had perfected the art of transformation so wholly and completely; they had never taken a moment to consider how it could apply to _another. _But no challenge was beyond them. They prepared, painstakingly, for weeks. They would have to be perfect- this man was unlike any other. And so, they were. 

The night stretched on, unbeknownst to them.

•

He had to let go. There was no other way Zima could come out of this alive. His obsession with attachment would drag him back and keep him from doing what he truly needed. This was the end for him. His self. Zima would emerge anew.

He began to uncurl, testing his legs as they stretched further away from his. He reached out his hands, looking up to see if there was anything other than the faint glow of his self. As his fingers unfurled, inkiness around him melted into the most brilliant shade of blue. Everything he had ever known or dreamed or lived or died was blue. Pure, unfiltered, agonizingly, beautiful blue. He had no idea what it meant.

•

The patient was in danger. It was like a flip had switched and suddenly everything was going wrong all at once. They worked, frantic, to save this being, before it was too late.

•

Zima tried to yell, to shout, to let anyone know he was here. He knew it was hopeless, but the rational part of his brain had departed long ago. Zima struggled against invisible bonds as he continued floating.

He wondered what would happen if he didn’t.

If he didn’t try to block it out,

if he didn’t force himself to be okay,

if he didn’t do or try anything.

•

The patient's core ceased it’s shuddering, muscles relaxing of their own accord. Crisis averted, they carried on.

•

The abyss was

u

n

f

a

t

h

o

m

a

b

l

e

.

Zima was

u n b r e a k a b l e .

The world was blue. And then it wasn’t.

•

The patient opened his eyes.

•

For the first time in his life, Zima could _see_.


	3. The Spectrum

Zima blinked a few times, slowly letting his eyelids droop down before hauling them up and open again, as the world around him sharpened from a dull fuzz. Above him- he realized that he was lying down- was a blank, white, glaringly bright ceiling. Eyes now adjusted, he realized that wasn’t true.

The ceiling was anything but blank.

He first noticed the floaters. Miniscule specs of dust, fiber, dead skin, wandering around aimlessly, until they happened upon a stream of air that whisked them off to another corner of the room, left behind to float and fall, slowly, to the ground.

Zima blinked, and his vision snapped back. The floaters were gone, and the ceiling was, once again, blank. Was this a development from this transformation? He looked for the floaters again.

He adjusted to the brightness of the white, as his new eyes processed the images they were receiving. Hazy waves made up the light, racing towards him, towards the bed, the walls, everywhere. Every wave moved at a different speed, all interwoven to create the brilliant, white, bright light.

Zima blinked again. He shook his head, trying to understand what he was seeing.

Hearing the click of a door, he looked towards its source. As they entered the room, one of them opened their mouth. Zima saw millions of particles crash into each other, being pushed out and away from the surgeon’s vocal cords. Zima clenched, bracing for the impact.

His ears picked up a soft _whoosh_ of air flowing by, and his brain connected the sound he heard with the image he had received only picoseconds before, the relieved sigh after they opened their mouth, then “You’re awake”.

“I assume that’s a good thing,” he responded.

“There were some complications-”

He saw them, but they looked

.

.

.

different.

“-but you’ve passed all our tests.”

Each of them had a faint glow.

“You should be ready to go.”

It radiated out from their cores.

“Go?” he said, at the same time, he realized he was seeing their infrared signatures.

“Everything you need to know was sent to you before the procedure– your personal items can be found under your bed.”

“Where do I go?”

Zima was still processing every layer of his new sight.

“We will send someone to escort you out,” they said, before retreating back into the dim hallway. Zima shrugged and settled back in. He could stare at the ceiling for one more minute.

•

Zima found himself outside a familiar rusted steel door. In the daylight, he could focus on the ever-creeping rust, watching as the electrons pulled away from the structure, toward the oxygen on its surface. The combustion reaction released tiny clouds of heat, which, to Zima, looked like little glowing mushrooms. Zima could have followed the rust for hours, but the camera he realized was watching him from the corner of the door frame, hidden away, made him uneasy.

The momentary press of his hand on the door was all the goodbye Zima could muster.

He turned, pushing his hands into his jacket pockets as he went. While his eyes ravaged the city around him, Zima was focused on a new sensation. His thumb brushed against the lining of his pocket. He felt each of the strands, woven together. He counted the thread until there was no more pocket to explore.

In his wanderings, Zima came across a park and a bench. The glaring layers of dirt, grime, and animal fecal matter were obvious only to him, so he chose to ignore them, grateful to find a seat of his own.

Closing his eyes, Zima began the arduous process of clearing his mind. It was an active effort to block out each of his sensations, the culmination of which would counterintuitively leave him detached from his external receptors.

He began with sound. Zima disengaged his eardrum, locking it in place so that no vibrations would penetrate his skull. The shrill cries of a young toddler in the park, interspersed with the coos and pecks of the birds around him, disappeared. He tackled his sense of smell next, forcing his septal nerves to retreat back to the olfactory bulb. A deep breath in until the only elements Zima processed were nitrogen and oxygen. His mouth was shut- and would remain so while he sat here. Coming to his hands, Zima pulled them out of his pockets, opening his eyes to take another peek at this new body.

Their work was exquisite. Zima’s eyes adjusted to his pressurized polymer palms. As he delved deeper into the layers of his self, he disconnected the dermis’ nerves from his brain. The soft wind weaving itself through his fingers was left behind.

He paused for a moment,

watching the breeze instead of feeling it.

Zima finally settled, closed-eyed, into himself.


	4. The Return

The park was by no means empty, and the sight of such a large being, rigid and unmoving, closed-eyed on the bench was undeniably bizarre. Passersby whispered to each other, their voices carried across the wind, and others gave pointed looks to this person- how rude he was, taking up the space for so long a time. He became a spectacle, bizarre enough that no one understood what was happening, but placid enough that they were content to leave him be. Those who had the time and nothing to do found themselves crossing back and forth in front of him, waiting for something to happen. As the sun made its voyage across the sky Zima stayed and waited.

Until it was time to leave.

•

At over seven feet tall, he stood well above the quasi-crowd that had gathered about him, which proceeded to scatter- quickly lost to the hum of the city. Zima’s next destination was one he was not sure he would recognize anymore. What would it feel like, being in the most familiar of places when every aspect of himself was entirely new? Good or bad, it didn’t matter. It was time for Zima to be home.

•

The house was overwhelming. Every room he went to- with his new eyes- was too much. The space was too loud, his vision crowded with everything that filled it. To the human eye, Zima lived a luxurious life. But his eyes were no longer human. They found comfort in the one place he had most suspected: his studio. 


	5. The Portrait

His fingertips bumped along the stack of canvases- the rough fabric disguised by layers of paint- until he stopped, at the very end. His first portrait (a copy, of course).

_The couple was undeniably striking. The woman’s hair, woven into itself and placed delicately on the crown of her head, was a deep, rich brown. The loose strands which framed her face- no doubt placed there precisely for this purpose- were perfectly curled, with the ends bouncing up into the shape of a wave. Her slender neck complimented her jewelry, and though Zima couldn’t be sure, he was certain everything she wore was rhodium, one of the most precious metals on earth and a trending status symbol for those who could afford it. Swaths of luxurious fabric wrapped around her waist, and climbed her torso, draped across her shoulders and chest. The thick cloth practically melted into itself- she was the picture of elegance. _

_Zima began to form her shape with long, broad strokes. The canvas blossomed with the deep maroon of her undershirt, followed by hasty strokes of a dusty mauve layered over. The paint, like the fabric it depicted, was thick. Each stroke was marked by grooves of the individual hairs on the brush, and while the paint refused to settle, somehow, it fit. _

_Zima tore his eyes off the canvas, refocusing his work. _

_There was another half to this portrait- the man sitting beside her. His face was long and angular, like Zima’s, but the resemblance ended there. His skin was pale, and the lone spot of light shining down reflected brightly off of his forehead. His widow’s peak complimented the thick, caterpillar-like eyebrows (a mental note Zima made to himself, for later), and the sharp angle of his jaw and chin seemed harsh next to her rounded cheeks and button nose. His suit was well-tailored- a perfect fit, and crisp too. He had either purchased it exclusively for this session or owned so many that no single set ever wore out. _

_Zima wondered how many suits he would need to never wear them out. A thousand? His closet could never fit them all. _

_He dipped his brush into the inky black paint. Pulling the brush down, its bristles caressed the canvas, filling every nook and cranny with its darkness. Sharp angles formed the contour of his shoulders. Zima observed his work as he mixed his next color- something was missing. _

_The portrait was truly stunning; the perfect blend of expressionist and realist, with the subtle nuances of their expressions delicately captured in the depiction. He worked on the shade for a minute, longer than most colors he mixed, because it had to be right. His eyes devoured the color, a shade of blue that felt so familiar and yet so unique. He picked a smaller paintbrush this time. Rolling it on his pallet, the paint enveloped the brush, and the few strokes he placed, ever so precisely on the man’s tie, were perfect. _

_Taking a step back, Zima found himself dissatisfied. He fiddled with the background, layering colors on top of each other until they mixed into one block that he scraped off, to begin again. He added the burnt orange back- it wasn’t the background that was the problem. He looked at their faces, both his interpretation and the ones in front of him. _

_And then he looked out to the stars. _

_Oh. _

_The_

_s t a r s. _

_He loved them. _

_He could stare at them all day, _

_and all night,_

_f_

_o_

_r_

_e_

_v_

_e_

_r_

_. _

Zima had a special place in his heart for this canvas. It was the painting that launched his career. He had hundreds of copies of portraits, people from every known planet would request to be painted by him, and a select few were honored to receive his work- his impression of _them_. He stayed, glued to his portraits for years, but was always drawn beyond. He wanted to look up and out, to his sky, to the cosmos.


	6. The Sanctuary

The next phase of Zima’s artwork was the murals. The truly spectacular canvases- the ones that spanned walls and mountains and eventually the skies.

But you’ll get to that soon.

_Zima looked to the cosmos. The stars spoke to him in a way that no one else could, and so he listened to them, letting the vibrations of the sound echo through his body and ring through his head in a way that was not entirely comfortable, but wholly necessary._

_ Zima could not start his work until he understood his subject- for the cosmos was no simple human. It was a vast, intricate, beautiful network of celestial bodies on a path created billions of years ago that he would only partly witness. While Zima was unbounded by the limitations of time, he felt a sense of urgency in his portraits of the sky. If he waited too long, it would shift- he would be out of place and would have to start all over again. _

•

_Zima studied the stars for years. Completely isolated, the press attempted to track him down the first few months. Zima refused to resurface, and eventually, they stopped looking. _

_He was alone._

_He was ready._

_He refused to let anyone else onto the plot of land where the studio would be. He would have to build it, entirely on his own. This ground was sacred. _

_He tested it first, checking its stability, whether or not it would hold the weight of his grand plan. He began to bring his vision to life, sketching sheet after sheet until he found the one. The meticulous details he sifted through took months- he would have to plan everything, from the largest sheet of drywall, to the smallest screw, to the acrylic shelf, to the marble floor. Zima took it all in stride, never once faltering, never wavering, ever the voyager, delving further and further into his journey across the universe. _

•

_The concrete rippled where he poured it, and slowly settled, smoothening itself out as gravity worked her magic. Zima lifted a heavy hand, wiping it across his forehead before admiring his progress. The planning had paid off. A foundation was sitting before him, the one he conjured up so long ago. He almost didn’t believe it was real. _

•

_The brickwork took the longest. The walls seemed to stretch endlessly while Zima worked steadily, alone. He played no music, instead enjoying the simple pleasure of being outdoors. His hands were numb, and his fingers felt glued to their tools. He scooped out a portion of cement from the bucket next to him, slapping it onto the top of the four-brick-tall wall. The wet material was easy to shape, and the artist within Zima took over, shaping it with care, flattening the layer so it was even with the others. He reached down to the dwindling pile of bricks he had set out earlier. He would soon be done with this pile. After that, only ten more to go. For this row of bricks, at least. _

•

_He had chosen this corner of his island for the studio because it was close enough to his house to walk to, but far enough that his view of the ocean was unobstructed. Surrounding him were miles and miles of sea, and above, only sky. He paused for a moment, savoring the shade of blue of the sky. While it certainly felt constant, Zima could discern the subtle changes from day to day, and he waited patiently for it to mean something. To see that shade of blue he so loved from his very first portrait. _

_He wondered why he craved it so much. What was it, deep within, that had inexplicably bonded with this shade of blue? _

•

_Trees. Zima wanted trees. The studio stuck out on the edge of the island, out of place and foreign to the environment. He wanted to fill it with life, so that it was a living, thriving, ever-changing place, to match the art he would create. He planted a mix of gingko and eucalyptus, maple and birch. He watched the saplings grow, letting the seasons pass by until they were healthy enough to be transplanted. With the studio mostly complete, Zima worked on odd pieces here and there- trying his hand at sculpting with the extra Italian marble he had ordered, but quickly decided it wasn’t for him. With his canvases, he could create anything he wanted and completely transform it a minute later if he desired. The marble restricted him, growing smaller and smaller until there was nothing left to chisel away at. Zima was ready to begin, and eventually, so too, was his studio. _

Zima looked out the window, admiring his trees, the spectacular height they reached. The way the light filtered through the leaves formed cookie cutter rays of sunshine on his floor, woven between the veins of marble. Some had died in the years since he planted them, but new, stronger saplings, grown from clippings of the surviving trees were surviving. Zima smiled at the gingko leaves fighting against the wind. Not all of them made it, and those who succumbed found their way down to the ground, joining the growing pile of yellow gold leaves that surrounded the studio.

Zima searched for a pallet. There were plenty of them tucked away in drawers and cabinets, and others strewn about the space, dried paint hardening into thick, unforgiving layers. But this pallet was special. Using the knife, he grabbed earlier from his workbench, he began to chip away at the years of coated paint. Layer after layer gave way until he found it. Buried under years of work, it was preserved perfectly: his blue, Zima Blue.


	7. The Shade

Zima Zima Zima Zima Blue Blue Blue Blue. 

Z

i

m

a

B

l

u

e

. 

Zima

Blue

.

ZimaBlueZimaBlueZimaBlueZimaZimaBluewhoareyou. 

I am Zima Blue. He is Zima Blue. Zima Blue is you and me and Zima Blue is everything in between. 

Zima, blue. 


	8. The Reveal

_He sketched careful lines onto the bumpy, dried paint. Feet planted squarely on his lift, Zima raised the spray gun with his left hand and pulled the trigger. A fine mist of what could only be described as a blend between aquamarine and baby blue sprayed out, filling the canvas dot by dot. He guided the stream back and forth, slowly filing in the edges of the pox he had so delicately carved into the middle. When he reached the bottom, he began again, this time painting up and down, from one edge of the box to the other. Zima held it closer, for one final spray, holding his hand steady as he traces a solid blue border around his fuzzy box. It was ready. _

•

_Zima stood on the roof of the building, his crimson cape billowing behind him in the wind. It felt like the whole world was watching, holding its breath, waiting to see what Zima would unveil. The covering alone had taken months to make- no one had ever painted a canvas this vast, only Zima was able to accomplish this feat. He stood for another minute, letting the enormity of his project sink in before giving the signal. Red fabric tore apart from itself, curtains swinging away to reveal the masterpiece behind as the split in the middle grew larger and larger, making its way to the edges of the canvas. _

_Chatter immediately sprung up from the crowd- murmurs kept Zima from hearing all but the loudest of voices. They hadn’t expected this. For years Zima had been in his cosmos phase, the mural of the planets was nothing new, but it was the square that intrigued them. It felt so out of place and yet Zima had never seemed surer of himself._

_And then he did it again. _

_And again. _

_And again. _

_For decades, with every piece he unveiled, the blue seemed to grow, encroaching on more and more of the canvas. Until one day, it _was_ the canvas. _

_Zima Blue. _

_It was a precise thing. _


End file.
